Last Thursday afternoon, Elvis came home from a run around Lake Merritt and said, “Man, it smells sweet in here, like you’re wearing a perfume called ‘Grandma’s Kitchen’ or somethin’.”

“It’s Thanksgiving. I’m making us dinner,” I said.

Elvis smiled at me. “Son, you’re yanking my chain, if it’s Thanksgiving where’s the damn bird. I looked in the ‘fridgerator this morning, and I didn’t see nothing with wings in there.”

“That’s because I don’t eat turkey. Come on, Elvis, you remember–I’m a vegetarian.”

Chik'n nuggets, mushroom balls, peppered Tofurkey slices

“I thought that just meant you ate more vegetables than regular folk. Well what the hell are you cooking up?” Elvis dabbed at his forehead with one of his custom made “E.P.” embroidered towels and sauntered over to the stove. “Well that there’s ham, son, you been fooled,” he laughed.

“This right here is fried chicken, and this,” he poked at the skillet with a spatula.”Well this I don’t know what it is; looks like sheep’s balls or sump’n, but I’ll tell ya this, it ain’t nuthin’ that no veggy-tartarian-person should be shovin’ down their gullet. I don’t know what poor animal had his nuts sliced off for your uptight Britsh version of Thanksgiving, but I’m as hungry as a horse. Man, those better not be horse’s nuts.” Elvis laughed again and said, “I’m gittin’ in the shower. Son, you are one daffy kinda Limey duck.”

I pulled the pan of roasted potatoes from the oven, I’d mixed in some turnip, carrots, and sweet potato in there for some variety. I could hear Elvis singing in the shower. “Now and then there’s a fool such as I…you hear that, you crazy Brit, a fool you’re a damned fool…vegetablearian my ass.”

Elvis got out of the shower and slipped into a maroon velour jumpsuit and I burst into laughter when he came into the living room. “Elvis, you look like one of the Golden Girls in that thing.”

“Son, I told you how much I love that show, now you can make fun ‘a me all you want, but you tear into what’s her name? You know, the slutty one, or that other one, you know the dumb one, or that big one, and that older lookin’ one, you askin’ for a whole mess a trouble.”

“You don’t even know their names,” I laughed, and Elvis fell into a pout. “All right, no harm intended. I’m plating the food in a minute. First though, a toast.” I poured two glasses of champagne. “Here’s to our first Thanksgiving since I rescued you from that old folks home, you ungrateful tyrant.” I smiled and winked.

“Amen,” he sang. “Let’s grub.”

Elvis bowed his head and said a prayer for his mama, and dug into the vegetarian feast like a shark feeding on chum. “What the…this ain’t no sliced turkey, and this…this ain’t fried chicken, and these balls didn’t come from no animal I never heard of. Son, are you trying to poison me?”

“Elvis, I told you it’s all fake meat stuff; if you wanted something different you could have made it yourself. Now sit down and eat your dinner, before it gets cold.”

Elvis harumphed and sat to eat.

“Pass me some of them potatoes and other funny colored things…and I guess that ham steak looks pretty good. Fake meat, my ass, ham s’posed to come from a dang pig ya know?” He cut off a slice and began eating the veggie ham. “Say this ain’t too bad, little o’ this gravy on the top.”

For dessert, I served Elvis a slice of pumpkin pie and within minutes after finishing it, he was asleep on the couch snoring with remote control in hand.

I guess the old guy was tuckered from his run, but maybe it was the dang tryptophan that put him in that food coma.